


Till There Was You

by YellowPlasticene



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21891100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowPlasticene/pseuds/YellowPlasticene
Summary: Sunday Night At The London Palladium.It electrified an audience, captivated millions, drew greater life into The Beatle's songs from 1963 onward... A lifetime away now for Paul -- until it's not.
Relationships: Cynthia Lennon/John Lennon, Jane Asher/Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

The world's upside-down -- or he is.  
  
Flat on his back, ears ringing, staring up at what is pretty quickly clearing up from a blurred dark mess into a dark mass of boards - and fierce bright lights. Squinting, scrunching his eyes shut again, Paul struggles to make sense of it.  
  
"-- he alright?"

"'Ere, get his arm, I'll help him up this side."

An arm wraps round his back, someone's hand grabbing hold of Paul's arm in an effort to slowly sit him up. But he feels like a dead-weight, the light glaring down too brightly and - he lets out a sharp breath.

"Paul, hey. You alright?"

He can just manage to grunt, the cotton in his head feeling like it's falling away way too slowly. Somehow, he manages to rub at the side of his head and someone lets out a sigh that sounds somewhat like relief.

It's around that point that he stiffly turns to the source.

And freezes.

"Brian…?" he croaks.

"Yes…?" He's peering down at him, eyes wrinkled up in concern and bemusement both. An animated, breathing picture of Brian Epstein; a man he knew as long since dead.

A roll of nausea hits Paul, has him curling in on himself. 

Someone's arm is snaking round his back again, voices overlapping in his ears but he - _fuck_ , something's been slipped into his drink somehow the night before, hadn't it? He's suffering from some kind of messed up hallucination or something or - or…

Movement. A shadow falling over him, someone crouching in front of him saying something. He automatically looks up and _that's not Brian._

_It's…_

Ringo _…?_

_But he looks..._

"What happened to your face?" He gasps.

And as laughter bubbles up from somewhere behind him, Ringo's _young_ face crinkles into the start of a confused smile.

Then Paul's abruptly rocking forward, the hallucination of the man scrambling back - and Paul pukes on the floor.

* * *

"Give the man some room, now, alright?"

"Should we be callin' for an ambulance, y'think? Paul looks like he's gonna pass out again." Paul's trying his best to block them out but, fuck, Ringo even _sounds young._ He puts his head in his hands. 

He startles as someone - _George, he looks like George -_ shoves a bag under his nose. "S'all they've got here in the studio, if you're needing to be sick again," he says apologetically.

He takes it wordlessly, all frowns and regarding this youthful looking George's face, who raises an eyebrow at him before retreating. 

Then he's leaning back in the chair he'd been moved to, staring up at the brightly lit ceiling, resting his head back against the wall. And letting out a breath, feeling his stomach burning itself into tight knots. This is all some mad dream. A lucid one.

That's all.

He'll wake up back in his bed, or find out he's passed out from… whatever's been slipped into his drink or something.

There’s no way that any of this is real.

“You should’ve told us it was getting this bad before.”

He stiffens, slowly straightening, to see… someone that shouldn’t be here.

… John.

A youthful-looking, actually _physically there_ John, leaning back against the wall a little distance away from himself, eyeing him with a slight furrow to his brow.

And that’s enough for him.

Getting unsteadily to his feet, still clasping that stupid proffered bag in his hands, he sub-consciously heads for the exit to this bloody studio and it’s bloody hallucinations.

As the door creaks closed behind him, his legs pick up with what his panicked brain is telling them and he _legs it._

The world’s a blur of bright and dull colours, of doors and windows and background yells that register just vaguely in his ears.

He trips down the stairs and into the main lobby of somewhere that looks familiar and also not, heart pounding, breaths leaving him in rapid gasps.

Then his legs give out.

He’s slumping onto the floor, clutching at his knees, sitting close to the bottom of the stairs, hidden just barely behind the counter. And he just… drops his forehead against his legs and scrunches his eyes shut.

Why’s his mind playing bloody tricks on him like this? This all… It looks so _real._ But it can’t be. It just can’t!

 _Breathe,_ he attempts to calm himself. And slowly, he resorts from a bout of near hyperventilation to something more akin to having run a short distance. With each breath after, his mind clears that little bit more.

Okay, what's the last thing he can remember? 

He'd had some of the kids round, hadn't he? Dropping off some Christmas cards or... A sharp jolt of pain passes through his forehead and he reaches up to massage one side of his temple with a hiss. Was… was that it? Or was it something else…?

He can’t… think clearly.

"It's all this bloomin' stress," he mumbles. If only he'd come down from all this or just wake up already!

Knocking his head back against the cool wall, he remains where he is, waiting, hoping...

"There you are! What were you thinking, doing a runner like that in this condition?" Brian's voice echoes down to him, his footsteps clacking down the stairs.

He glances up at him and away. So much for waiting for this to fade off. "Jus' needed some air away from everything," he mutters.

He hears him let out a quiet breath. "Are you up for coming back to the studio with me? Or do you want me to drive you home for tonight?" There’s obvious concern in his tone but, Paul can't bear to look at him too much right now.

His stomach seems to be in much the same agreement, twisting queasily. But he can't just...ignore this right now, can he? Maybe if he actually faces up to all this, it'll fade off faster.

And so, he pushes himself to his feet, gesturing for Brian to lead him the way back. He can't bring himself to imagine the scope of what 'home' itself could bring in this surrealistic situation, never mind letting Brian drive him back.

When they head on into the sound room, he catches sight of the others - absolutely _alive_ and _so young_ that it’s hard to consider just… how real this seems.

“What was all that for, eh?” John remarks, approaching them, smoke trailing after him from the cigarette in his mouth. “You took one look at me and ran!”

It takes everything in him right now to face him and shake his head. “It wasn’t you, I just… I’d had enough of everyone seeing me like that.” It throws him at just how steady he keeps his voice, even if it sounds off in his ears. 

“Not something you can altogether help though, is it?” Ringo pipes up. "When you're sick, you're sick."

“Yeah, sure, if you're letting the stress get to you that much,” John replies, casting Paul an indecipherable look.

“Alright lads.” Brian drops a hand onto Paul’s shoulder and he flinches, glancing at it. “We’ll take a break here, yeah? Once Paul’s feeling a bit better, we’ll continue.”

Or once everything’s been cleaned up after him in the recording room. He feels somewhat guilty for that, for… whatever reason. 

God, he’s all over the place.

“Yeah, I uh… I’ll take a seat for a bit, see how I feel after a while,” he says, plopping himself down in one of the chairs.

He can feel their eyes on him; quiet and concerned. But it feels _wrong_. 

He can’t help hunching himself up in his new seat, his stomach doing twisting flips inside of him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is inspired by the very brilliant: [On our way back home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20258821/chapters/48016600)! 'Tis my first time ever writing a Beatles fic.


	2. Chapter 2

Eventually, the others strike up conversations with one another, thankfully leaving him more or less out of them. 

Maybe… maybe he is actually not that well. Maybe, that could explain some of this. 

He’s all aches and pains, his head pounding whenever he attempts to work any of this out further. But it’s not stiffness from drinking too much or from sleeping roughly on the wrong side of his bed.

Someone dropping down near him cuts him from his thoughts.

Ringo’s leaning back against the table’s edge, fag in hand. And god, it keeps throwing him. He shouldn’t look like that.

“How you feeling?” Ringo asks.

Paul shrugs. “M’ fine.”

It’s obvious he doesn’t believe him. Who wouldn’t when less than thirty minutes before, he’d dashed out of the room sick as anything in their eyes.

“You gave us a right scare, y’know?”

“What?”

Ringo nods down at his clothes, then takes a puff from his cigarette. “I mean, you did almost ruin this suit of mine.”

The smallest of smiles works its way onto Paul’s face. “Everyone knows you can’t cope without that crisp, clean suit.” It’s more casual wear than anything, something that he could vaguely recall him seeing during old recording sessions back in… what? The 60’s or 70’s?

“I know. It’s me best one.”

His smile soon drops though, edged by a twinge of worry in his chest. “Rich…”

“Mm?”

“Did you, you know, get surgery done or something?” 

He blows smoke to the side, peering at Paul for a few moments. “Uh, no, not really. Why you ask?”

Paul shrugs. “You look different.”

Before anything more can be said, he freezes. John’s coming over and no, he can’t -- but then he’s nudging Ringo playfully in the side as he glides past them. “Watch out, you’re making Ringo blush with all that flirty talk.”

Ringo snorts and John blows a kiss to him, grinning. Though as he glances to Paul, his expression shifts, considering him. 

It takes him only a few seconds more to end up draping an arm over Paul's shoulder, leaning some of his weight into the motion. Paul stiffens, the literally _warm_ arm sending alarm bells screeching through his head. 

What the _fuck._

"Besides, everyone knows the only thing Ringo's had done is nose surgery," John adds.

"Yeah, to make me nose look better than any of yours," Ringo retorts. 

Paul shifts, trying to move subtly away from John. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Ringo frowning lightly at him, then to John.

Whatever's passing through his head, Paul's not in the mood to dissect it. Instead, he's more focused on the fact that his headache's growing even worse.

Choosing to stay and wait for this hallucination to fade off is seeming less and less like a good idea. Particularly when it's so clearly affecting not just vision but his sense of smell and touch too.

But it feels like he's frozen where he is. The fact that he's so close to a living, breathing replica of John both terrifying and unbelievable in equal measures.

"I don't think hanging off of Paul's shoulder when he's like this will help much, John," George says, eyeing them from across the room.

It's enough to catch Paul's attention, and John's too.

John narrows his eyes. "We're all hanging around here because he's not well, right? I'm just acting as his support here."

"Brian's said for us to give him space."

John's eyes grow innocently wide. "Did he?"

Rubbing at his head, Paul leans back. "Stop it, alright?" It's quietly said but there in the open now. "I'm fine. I… don't need all this fussing over me."

Robotically, Paul removes John's arm from his shoulder and gets to his feet, moving away from the three. 

George sighs, casting an irritated look at John, who's simply staring at Paul as if he's grown an extra head.

Straightening, trying to act as if he _is_ absolutely fine, Paul adds, "What song were we on before all this?" The least he can do is deflect all this, keep going until this is all over. Even if it means working with some old song he either can't bloody remember or hasn't practiced in years because of it.

"Erm, 'I'll Get You'," George replies. "We were about to start playing before you passed out."

God, when did he last perform that song? Five years ago? Six? ... But that was solo. It'll be another thing entirely to perform it again with these replicas of everyone. "... Right, right. Where's Brian?"

"He's gone to make a call back in the lobby, I think," Ringo says.

"I'll go get him and let him know we're ready to play."

Ringo opens his mouth as if to protest, but Paul ignores him, quickly turning to leave back through the entrance he'd came through earlier.

As soon as he's safely alone and far enough away, he collapses against the wall and lets out a long, jittering breath. This is all so wrong!

It shouldn't feel this alive. None of it should!

"Fuck this," he mutters, scowling at the floor.

It's so stupid that he has to live through this until it bloody wears off or he… wakes up or whatever the hell is going on.

He doesn't even know anymore.

But he's going to have to keep going, isn't he? He already made his mind up on that back there. And he's not going to bloody walk out on this; where would he even go in this state anyway?

Flexing his left fist, he heads down the stairs and back into the main lobby, feeling the itch of memories welling up bit by bit within his mind. Knowing now, to look at all of this familiarity, that this is Abbey Road Studios - that he's in London.

It has his chest twinging. It looks like it used to. Not the brand new coats of paint and polished furniture but something that reminds him so much of the 60's that it hurts. 

But none of this _is_ then, anyway.

Right?

* * *

He's on his way down the stairs when he almost literally bumps into Brian. 

"How are you doing? Everything alright?" he asks.

Paul glances away then back at him, nodding and smiling, even though it's strained. "Yeah, I just came down to say that we're all ready."

"You sure?"

"I'm certain." He shrugs off-handedly.

Brian eyes him for a few moments, then nods, following him back up.

As they enter Studio Two again, Paul's insides churn and he wonders, just for a moment, if this is the right decision. Then he brushes it aside, letting the uncertainty settle in alongside his mostly ignored nausea.

The other's gazes are on him momentarily, until Brian claps his hands together. "Right, shall we get started then?"

Quietly, the gang head back into the recording room, Paul trailing after them. It's only once he's halted in front of the microphone that a very crucial problem washes over his mind; he’s drawing a blank, he can't remember all of the lyrics to the song. With every bloody thing playing through his mind at once… that - the most obvious thing in the world - hadn't registered until now.

But, wouldn’t it look weirder for him to stop and backtrack on his word now? He’s already joining them, fingers idly running along the strings of his bass guitar. 

Then John’s stepping up to the microphone, casting Paul an irritated glance. And something slips into place. 

It’s a trial, what he’s drawn into; parts of him subconsciously knowing what to do, even as the rest of him just… follows John’s lead in the vocals. Co-vocals, old times.

In the middle of it all, though, his falters become one too many - caught between the growing nausea and the familiar unfamiliarity of it all again - and the others are slowing down, stopping.

Sub-consciously he’s clutching at his stomach, feeling faint again. Everything catching back up with him at once.

Wordlessly, John grabs his arm and pulls him back out of the studio, and all Paul can do is follow. 

“You’re going home,” he says to him as Paul pulls away, putting some distance between them.

“I’m not. I’m fine, I just need to get back into playing again, that’s all.”

“And, what, by the time you’re done getting back into playing again we’re all gonna be up on stage at the London Palladium?”

Paul’s head snaps up, his bewildered gaze finding John’s. “What?”

“You heard me, Paulie. Just… look, you’re being weird, we’ve got a few days left to rehearse. I’ll get Brian to get you home.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but can’t find the words. Instead, he closes his mouth again and John scowls, shaking his head, heading over to talk to an increasingly worried looking Brian.

The Palladium…? The song… Hadn’t they gone there back near the end of 1963?

Everyone’s voices, they tune out. Barely making any sense as he's gently led down the stairs and out towards the streets, mutterings and shouted words reaching him from the gathering crowd around the entrance but making no sense as he’s bustled into Brian’s car.

It’s only once they’re on the road that he snaps back into the now. Finding himself staring out the window, a faint reflection of _someone_ staring back at him through the glass.

And, he realizes: that’s _him_.

He’s reaching out to touch the unbelievable mirrored face that looks back.

A young face.  
  
 _His_ young face.


	3. Chapter 3

Quietly spoken words and glances in his direction. 

Someone that looks like a younger version of Jane, all bright hair and gentle gazes. 

He’s stood a little distance away from them, chewing on his fingernails. This house is… hers, not his. He remembers moving in with her, but that was so long ago.

“Are you coming in then, Paul?” 

“Eh?” He turns, catching Jane obviously waiting for his answer. Then shrugs. “I… Yeah, y’know, I’m ready.” … Not really.

She smiles, but it’s laced with that same concern that Brian and the others had. It's frustrating and guilt-inducing both.

Brian pats him on the shoulder, saying his get well soon and see you tomorrow’s, then he’s gone. Leaving him in the awkward pause to follow after Jane.

“Me mum’s out at the moment,” she says, gently taking his hand and leading him up the stairs towards the attic room. “So I could make you some soup or something, if you want.”

He manages a small smile at that. “Nah, you don’t have to.” She shouldn’t be expecting to pick up or look after him like this anyway, even as… wrong as this. Knowing that this isn’t right, that it already feels as if he’s leading her on, even if it’s a detached twinge amongst the swirling conflict over… everything in his heart and mind.

“I want to,” she says to him firmly, making him sit atop the bed’s mattress. “Soup might help you feel better.”

“Maybe.” 

She pecks him on the cheek and as she leaves, he sighs, rubbing a hand over that very same cheek. What's he going to do now?

He can't stay here, not when… not if this is in any way  _ real.  _ Not when there’s any possibility that his wife, his kids, his  _ grand-children  _ are stuck somewhere else entirely while he's here. The reasons as to why any of this is happening makes his already pounding head hurt something ever more fierce, makes him want to bury his face into the cushions and scream.

But instead, he ends up staring blankly down at his hands. They're his, but not. Young, smooth skin when it should be rougher, aged by time. Familiar. 

And god, in all this madness he didn't even notice it before. Shoving it all back into the far corners of his mind because of everything else in front of him.

He clears his throat, reaching up to touch his neck. Even his  _ voice… _

Shaking his head, he slams his hand back down onto the mattress.

No, this is all just a dream. That's all this bloody is.

It has to be.

Standing up in an attempt to push away his racing thoughts, he paces around the room. In here, he can see pieces of his old life: half-dead books perched on a desk, a brand new recorder resting atop the surface beside them, a stand for his bass guitar… and photographs, smiling, happy faces staring back at him.

Paul feels almost as if he's intruding. 

And bites on his bottom lip, turning his gaze away from all this memorabilia.

“Paul? Is everything okay?” 

He turns as Jane enters, then shrugs, trying to pass it off as casual. “Yeah, I’m fine. Absolutely.” At her look, he averts his eyes. 

She hums in thought, obviously not believing him, considering that Brian had dragged him back here under the phrasing: ‘he’s unwell’ but, how can he even begin to explain what’s going on? When he can’t even explain it himself? Especially when he’s... in actuality not spoken to her in ages. 

Barely at all after their break-up.

“You should get off your feet,” she says, pushing aside the book pile on the desk and setting the tray she’d brought down upon it. “Get some rest for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? … Oh, you mean getting ready for the show.”

“Of course I mean the show. You’d been on about it over the phone to me just a couple of days ago.”

“I had?” This time, she raises her eyebrows. “I mean, yeah, I remember that. Sorry, my mind’s a bit… all over the place.”

Sighing, she pats the bed and he stiffly sits down beside her. “Have this chicken soup, alright? I’m sure that’ll help a bit.”

“Right.” Carefully taking the bowl, he stares down into it before realizing that… staring blankly into soup probably looks weird. Hesitating, he takes a spoonful and, yup, this absolutely tastes like bloody real chicken soup.

“Is it that bad?”

“Huh?” He halts, spoon hovering over the bowl. “Uh, I dunno. I mean, it’s okay.”

A flicker of a smile works its way onto her features. “It’s not mine anyway, it’s just from a can.”

Honestly, he can’t stomach it. 

* * *

Waking up, he stretches, rolling over so that he can reach out and brush back his sleeping wife’s hair - and falls right out of bed.

A single bed in a room that isn’t his and - where is he --? 

Oh.

He’s still here.

Rubbing at his side with a groan, he gets to his feet. 

Only to jump almost a foot in the air as someone knocks on the door.

“Paul? You’ve got a call downstairs, it’s from John.”

John? Oh no… 

“Paul?”

“I… Yeah,” he croaks. “I’ll head down in a minute, I just - need to get dressed.”

“Alright, just make it quick, he’s all impatient.”

Making it quick to answer his call is probably one of the last things he wants to do right now. But still, he ends up cleaning himself up and getting dressed as quickly as he can manage.

As surreal as it is.

He’s still here right now. With someone waiting.

By the time he’s made his way down the stairs, Jane’s slipping off into another room, the corded phone waiting for him atop polished drawers. 

A pause, then, breathing out he says, “John?”

“No, it’s Mary Magdalene,” comes the reply. “Who else would it be?”

A wavering smile draws it’s way across Paul’s lips. “Alright, Mary? How’s it going?”

“Oh, I’m doing just fine!” His falsetto voice has Paul shaking his head, the smile stretching that bit wider, despite the twist it summons within his chest. “... You comin’ down to rehearse today? Brian forced me to call to drag your arse back to the studio.” 

He hesitates but, what else can he do? If he’s going to be stuck here for much longer… Perhaps it’s only until the London Palladium’s ended. “Right, yeah, y’know, I’m up for rehearsing.” He’s got to be, even if he still feels like shit right now. 

“Alllright, I’ll let ‘im know then.” And just like that, the phone-line goes dead. 

Exhaling loudly, Paul taps the receiver against his forehead. It’s not any easier listening to John’s voice than seeing him. But he’s got to keep it together.

Make it through all of this.


End file.
